Kershov’s ears perked at the sound of a stranger’s howl, rising like a wave on the wind until it crashed into silence. The Alpha dropped a half-eaten rabbit carcass from his mouth and raised his head in curiosity; it had been a while since a new recruit dropped by the borders, and Ker wondered what sort of motive had sent this particular wolf his way. Hopefully it wasn’t another one of those buoyant ignorant types that trotted up to his blood-stained fence, bright-eyed and hungry for their one true shot at becoming stronger. Feh. Kershov was usually willing to train those that showed promise and wanted to improve themselves—but sometimes he honestly wondered what sort of madness possessed those foolish dreamers to choose Abendrot. They were an army. Armies weren’t fun. And Kershov was not a merciful Ruler who understood weakness with a forgiving smile and another chance.

Kicking away his meal for the scavengers to have, the massive moon-white monster rose slowly to his paws and made his way toward the source of the howl. He did not rush; newcomers had to wait for him to arrive—he was King, and worked on his own time, time which would not be rushed or wasted on greeting new fodder. Speaking of fodder . . . Kershov internally wondered whether or not the howler intended on becoming a soldier. Marx’s plan to duel soldiers against one another would be carried out soon, separating the weak from the worthy. Where would this stranger fit in? The intriguing thought had a slight half-smile curving the handsome side of the arctic dragon’s velvet maw . . . completing the demonic grin carved permanently upon his savage mask. Long ago, a conniving foe had shorn the right half of Kershov’s muzzle away, tearing his lip back to reveal rows of shining daggers, scars etched across the bridge of his nose and clear up his cheekbone almost to one glittering black eye. It wasn’t a pretty look—and more often than not, succeeded in weeding out the weak of heart. How would this recruit react?

Large snowshoe paws stepped with unnerving quiet over the leaf-littered forest floor until Kershov had neared Abendrot’s outer wall. His cold gaze immediately picked out the form of another pale individual like himself: young, subdued, awaiting his fate patiently. Ker’s tail stirred the air casually behind him before raising it like a flag over his spine, signaling his Alpha status.

“Welcome to Abendrot, stranger. In case you know nothing about the land you’ve arrived at, allow me to introduce myself: I am Kershov, Monarch of this army.” The tundra devil’s voice slipped soft and cool as snowfall from his mutilated mouth, surprisingly smooth considering the barely audible clack of tooth against tooth coming from that torn right side. Kershov tipped his skull, appraising the lad; he seemed fit for battle, already carrying a few badges on his young face—and those eyes! Femmes surely would have swooned over such a striking color, but as it was Kershov merely noted the odd hue and continued his assessment. Maybe the dog was a healer . . . ? No—further inspection alerted the colorless King to a slightly off expression dancing about the stranger’s face. It was . . . unsettling. Hinting at madness. An assassin’s mask, perhaps?

“State your name and your reasons for calling my attention. If you argue your case well, I might not drag your hide toward the soldier’s den for sparring practice.”